


our own designing

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Hillbilly AU, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: A series of wild animal attacks have left the people of Mole's Town on edge.The Boltons are tightening their stranglehold on the town. Sansa is looking for reassurance in the wrong places. Jaime and Brienne are on the hunt for a dangerous killer. Jon is mobilising the town militia to take back control. Theon is on the hunt for his wayward girlfriend. And Robb just wants to keep his family safe, hidden away on the mountains they know and understand.[03 Jan 2021- ON HIATUS: As you know, this world is kinda tearing at the seams and I just don't have enough time right now to give these stories what they deserve. Seemy profilefor more info/to contact me. I will not be replying to comments on fics until further notice.]
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Virtue we think we learn, because we are told about it. But sin is our own designing.  
> \- John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Jon was sitting at the back table, the one where you could survey all the other patrons of the Leaky Barrel and see all the exits from. Theon rolled his eyes, at yet more evidence of the man’s over-dramatic brooding. Jon Snow had never had one ounce of fun in him, and you’d think he was a war-haunted vet from the way he carried on.

But the Night’s Watch was hardly a military organisation. More like the townie lunatic asylum, where all the losers with no other way to feel powerful joined up so they could crack skulls. They considered themselves the town’s protectors. They were a shadowy organisation who kept their activities covert and private, out of the watchful eye of the corrupt Sherriff. Especially since the Boltons had started buying up all the available property in town. There was no one in Mole’s Town that wasn’t on the take, Sheriff Mormont especially. Theon reckoned Mormont was so far up the Bolton’s butts that he could lick Roose’s tonsils.

From across the room, Jon glared at him sullenly, the joyless moron. Theon flipped him off just for the hell of it. Predictably, Jon stuck his nose up in contempt, and turned away rather than retalitate. Theon sighed and swigged his beer. From over the bar, Arya Stark was giving him the stink eye, as usual. She glanced at his wallet where it was poking out of his vest pocket, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m cutting you off,’ seemed to be the message, and Theon wasn’t the least surprised.

He’d dated her sister on and off for years. Arya never liked to send him home to her, drunk off his ass. He couldn’t blame her for it. Everyone knew how her uncle had beaten all the Stark kids, whenever he was sauced. She was a hard bitch, but she’d had to be. Theon and Arya got along alright, as much as she was capable of liking anyone.

Despite the fact that Theon wasn’t stumbling home to Sansa - they were in an ‘off’ period right now - he accepted Arya’s judgement. He’d only had a few, but he had a six pack at home if he needed more. It was a work night, but Theon had practically grown up on a boat, and he could fish with his eyes closed. Hung over or not, he’d be fine.

Theon wavered only a little as he attempted to light a fag; the glowing flame of his lighter flickering in the wind, like that last burning firefly on the water. He succeeded at last, taking in a lungful of nicotine like a drowning man gasping for air. Sansa hated him smoking. She was always trying to get him to quit. Theon wore the patches and chewed the gum when she insisted, but he saw no point when she was gone. She swore it was for good this time.

But she always said that.

Their little cabin was out buy the docks, right where they met the woods. The perfect combo for them. Theon was one of the water folk, but Sansa was a logger’s daughter. She grew up in the woods, and needed to trail through the trees on an almost daily basis, just to feel sane.

Rapidly approaching his house, Theon was fumbling to get his keys out from where they were tangled in his pocket, when a man’s voice startled him. He dropped the keys and they clattered out onto his doorstep with a jolly jingle. Theon frowned, and turned to find himself looking Sansa and Arya’s uncle by law in the eye.

“I need to speak with Sansa,” Petyr Baelish said, in that hissing, creepy little voice of his.

“Fuck off,” said Theon shortly.

Sansa had always been afraid of Baelish. She swore he’d never put his hands on her, except in of anger. It was just as well. Cause if Theon hadn’t kill him cause of it, Jon would have. She only had to change her mind, to say the word, and he was already dead. Theon already despised him enough that he’d do it just for the beatings, if he thought he could get away with it. All the Starks had run back to the mountains at the first opportunity, due to him. It was where they belonged, but it would be nice if more of them felt comfortable down in the valley too.

Theon retrieved his keys and shoved open the door, into the inky, bleak cabin. Baelish advanced, daring to step onto what passed for Theon’s porch.

“Sansa-!” he called out, before Theon reared back and punched him in the throat.

“Get the fuck off my property,” he snarled.

Theon never had to issue a threat twice, and Baelish knew it. He wheezed, splayed out on the over-grown concrete path, red-faced in the pool of light now spilling from Theon’s porch lamp. It was directly behind Theon, a halo around his body as though he were a fury, his face cast in shadow. Theon wasn’t about to tell Baelish that Sansa wasn’t here, so he could go looking for her elsewhere. He let out a snarl and Baelish looked about ready to piss himself.

Once the little worm had scuttled off into the pitch dark - there were no street-lamps down Theon’s dirt road - he pulled out his mobile phone. Sansa didn’t pick up, but that was hardly a surprise, she’d been dodging his calls for weeks. He left her a voicemail and sent her a text, hoping it would be enough. Sansa had a few friends Baelish didn’t know about. She was good at hiding.

Theon had been planning on heading straight to bed. When he was walking home, her certainly felt exhausted enough to simply pass out. But adrenaline was pumping through his body, and he reached for the beer in the fridge instead.

*

He woke at what felt like midday, on his sofa, to the pounding of his front door.

“Kingsguard, open up!” came the roar, before they busted in the lock.

Bewildered, Theon’s hands shot up as he eyed the guns toted by the strangers. What kind of cops carried guns?

“Did you say Kingsguard?” Theon spluttered, astounded.

What the fuck were they doing so far from civilisation? The only Kingsguard outpost in the North was in White Harbour, which was miles and miles east from here. No one from the prestigious city of White Harbour came to fuck about in Mole’s Town. Unless they were on the run.

“You Theon Greyjoy?” The woman barked, only her voice telling Theon that she was indeed a woman.

Theon blinked, certain he had never seen an uglier dame in all his life. Her eyes were a bright, shining blue, which was just about her only positive feature.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, in answer to their question.

He’d fallen asleep in his t-shirt and underpants, and a strip of his lightly-haired, flat belly was showing. He wanted to tug it down, but didn’t fancy getting shot if he tried.

“Why weren’t you on the boat?” asked the woman, her stoic partner tightening the grip on his handgun when Theon only frowned.

“Huh?”

“The boat!” the man finally barked, “With your crew, you didn’t turn up to work today.”

“What are you talking about?” said Theon, “It’s only mid-morning, my alarm hasn’t even gone off yet! Look, if Asha is pissed, you can tell her this little joke is very funny, but I’ll be on time for the rest of the week okay? Gods, she didn’t have to get people to dress up- where’d you get the guns?”

The presumably fake Kingsguard agents looked at one another in bemusement, and finally lowered their weapons in the face of Theon’s utter bewilderment.

“Who’s Asha?” asked the guy, while the woman said;

“It’s three in the afternoon, and your crew is dead.”

“What?” said Theon, and then louder, “What the _fuck_ -”

“I’ll ask again, why weren’t you on the boat?” she cut across him, severe with not a hint of a joke on her face.

Theon swallowed thickly, horrified. “What happened? Did they sink? Was it a storm…?”

“No,” barked the woman, “They were murdered.”

“Murdered-?” Theon choked, aghast, and finally realised why they were here.

He didn’t turn up to work on the very day his crew was _murdered_. They thought he was a suspect.

*

Sansa brushed her hair slowly, unaccustomed to preparing herself in the dark. She had always been vain; easily the most attractive of her siblings. Though Robb was a close second, she was the one who dressed to impress, and Theon had never had any complaints. It felt odd to wear the long, flowing robes of her new order. She patted down her freshly smoothed hair, and adjusted the moon pendant at her throat.

“Good night, sister,” came a voice from the dark.

It wasn’t a greeting that indicated the time of day, Sansa had soon learnt since joining the order. She repeated the phrase, her eyes barely making out their leader in the dark.

“Have you heard the news?” he said, “Many more have joined the Night, too early. It is a bad omen.

“All things must die,” said Sansa, repeating the refrain she had been taught.

“You are correct sister. But I fear for the implications, if our work is hindered by these deaths.”

“How did they meet their end?” Sansa enquired with a frown.

The leader sighed, heavy and careworn. He was in charge of keeping them all on the path, and it was not always an easy task, when so many townies were unwilling to even listen. He began to describe the incident that had taken place that morning, according to the rumours coming from the dock, of a crew dead, torn apart by some wild animal.

Sansa’s blood chilled her to the bone, as it turned to ice in her veins.

*

“So Greyjoy seems like a dead end. Baelish was heard yelling at him last night by the neighbours,” said Jaime, “But we only have his word that his was drunk on the couch all night.”

They’d questioned him at the station for a couple of hours, but it had been fruitless. The guy had vomited when he realised the ramifications of their visit, and hadn’t fared much better once they dragged him into the station.

“The breathalyser came back way over the limit, consistent with his version of events,” Brienne sighed, “It looks like he just got lucky - extremely lucky - not to be on that boat.”

Her eyes were fixed again on the gruesome crime scene photos, and Jaime leaned over to have another look at them himself.

“What a fucking mess,” he sniffed, disgusted by the blood smeared and splattered across every surface of the crime scene.

“Can you believe the Sheriff maintains this has nothing to do with the other bodies?”

They had arrived in town just that morning, having received a directive from up high to look into the affairs at Mole’s Town. They weren’t expecting to walk into an explosion of chaos at the station, the biggest multiple-murder in the town’s history. Six men dead of a seven man crew.

They’d assumed Greyjoy’s body was missing until Brienne had thought to ask if he’d even turned up at work that morning. No one had been assigned to the case yet, so they had swooped in and demanded it. Sheriff Mormont had parted with it reluctantly. He was a greasy, balding fat man with an ill-favoured look, who eyed Brienne like he wanted to tell her that ‘wimmin’ had no place in his station. It was only a stern look from Jaime that had him handing over the case file without first calling their superiors.

But he’d said nothing about the other attacks. They’d learnt about those from the first man on the scene, a mute fisherman named Wex. The kid was wide-eyed and no doubt terrified. But his hands had flown about so fast they were almost a blur, and the translator had barely been able to keep up. She’d had to ask for him to slow down more than once, but it hadn’t really helped.

But Wex’s testimony had been invaluable. He’d seen packages beneath the dead men; large, thick packages, wrapped with tape, that were suspiciously absent from the police file and evidence list.

He had made a series of signs that the translator paused too long over, long enough for Brienne to remind the translator the interview was being videotaped and anything she held back could have her arrested for obstruction.

“He asked if it was the wolf.”

“What wolf?” said Jaime, “Is that a nickname for someone in town?”

“No,” said the translator, “He means the wolf that killed the others.”

“What others?” Brienne pounced, “When was this?”

“Gilly Craster and Karsi Green,” said the translator. “They were mauled to death on separate occasions, a few weeks back.”

Wex wasn’t deaf, just mute, so he was following the conversation, and now he signed again.

“He said, if it was the wolf, how did it get on the boat?”

“How indeed,” said Jaime with a sour smile.

The _Sea Mist_ had drifted into a marsh after the current had dragged it into shore. It was a small trawler, not one of the large 12-hand trawlers with the name ‘Bolton’ painted on the side, like most. The _Sea Mist_ had ‘Greyjoy’ on it instead, which perked their interest.

Theon Greyjoy had admitted the business belonged to him and his sister Asha, but she was management and he preferred to be on the water. They sold their catch at the market, but a portion of it was always set aside to be sold to the large Bolton cannery. Tinned fish was a huge industry in the North, second only to logging. All interesting background, but nothing especially eye-grabbing. Except that when Greyjoy was asked what he and Baelish had words about, he had been cagey.

He claimed Baelish was the town drunk, and just being ‘his usual asshole self’. That was the last they’d been able to get out of Greyjoy on that matter. He’d realised his buddies were really dead by then, gone white as a sheet and kept demanding to go and speak with his sister. They’d eventually sent him off in a taxi, since he was still over the limit to drive.

The Sheriff had kicked a chief deputy out of his office so they had a private space to work. But even with the door closed, they heard the screaming. Jaime rushed out into the corridor, with Brienne right behind him, in time to witness the commotion.

A young red-headed woman, somewhere in her early twenties, was hollering fit to make Brienne’s ear-drums burst. She was shaking violently. Screaming directly into the face of the unlucky deputy, who had caught a hold of her when she stormed in.

“Where is he?” she shrieked hysterically, “Where is he- where-?!”

The equally young deputy had his hands on her elbows, but it was doing nothing to subdue her. She was pummelling him in the chest, thick tears dribbling down her cherry cheeks as she sobbed. She eventually collapsed into the deputy’s arms as he attempted to soothe her.

“He’s alright, Sansa,” cooed the brunette deputy, with a helpless look on his face.

The other deputies were standing around uselessly, and none of them had even attempted to intervene. Brienne stomped over, irritated at this lack of professionalism. She understood things were less organised in small provinces, but she hadn’t anticipated it would be quite this bad.

The young woman was hiccupping into her hand, which she held to her mouth as she continued to sob.

“Ma’am, please tell me what this is all about-” Brienne started, but she was interrupted by the sound of the Sheriff’s voice, immediately behind her.

“S’alright agents, this is a town matter. Nothin’ to worry yourselves over,” he said gruffly.

“I think we’ll be the judge of that-” Brienne snapped, but Jaime offered the Sheriff a bland smile, pressing ahead of her.

He was always more a man of people, trying to charm everyone. With his golden hair and boyish looks, it usually worked. Jaime flashed his green eyes and winning smile at the Sheriff as he said;

“If we could just ask this young woman a few questions...”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Jorah Mormont firmly, “Sansa’s just had a shock. She heard about the boat, and didn’t know Theon wasn’t onboard.”

“I went by the house, and his truck was there, but he wasn’t, and-” said the redhead, beginning to work herself up again.

“There now,” said the Sheriff, “Come and have a cup of tea in my office with Podrick, while I phone your brother to come get you. Theon’s with his sister, no doubt.”

“He is,” Jaime confirmed, “We sent him off to his sister’s in a cab.”

Sansa offered them a bland, tear-stained look. It quickly turned resentful, as she realised they were the reason why Greyjoy’s truck had been left behind. She turned away from them quickly, before they could attempt to speak with her. Payne lead her away with a comforting hand on her arm.

“We might need to speak to her at a later date,” Brienne insisted, but was once more frustrated by the Sheriff’s unaccommodating head-shake.

She let out a frustrated huff of air, expecting him to shuffle away again. But she was surprised when the Sheriff responded with a chuckle, and he took out his mobile.

“I ain’t stopping you from trying,” he said, “But folks around here aren’t like your city people. They don’t trust the police. It’s a miracle you got Greyjoy to say as much to you as he did. Only cause you caught him off guard, mind: don’t expect the same level of co-operation again.”

“But she came into the station herself,” said Brienne, “She trusted you to look for him-”

“She came here as a last resort, cause she’s had a falling out with her brothers. They’ll be pissed that they have to come out here to get her. She’ll not make the same mistake any time soon, once they give her what-for.”

Brienne wanted to ask why on earth the Sheriff wasn’t attempting to utilise this one chance then, before she realised that he was.

“That’s why you’ve got the deputy with her,” Jaime finished off for him, “To find out what she knows, while her guard’s still down.”

“Catch more flies with honey, agents,” said the local lawman with a smug grin.

“You used us as bad cop,” Brienne grimaced, annoyed that she hadn’t identified the man’s strategy immediately.

She hadn’t expected the man to be so crafty, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake of underestimating him twice. They unashamedly listened in on his conversation with Sansa’s brother, and asked to be informed when he arrived.

They had retreated to their back office to keep going over the file for a good half-hour when the young deputy came to collect them. His nametag read ‘Payne’.

“Hey, agents, hi,” he said, stumbling and blushing through his words, “You wanted to know when Sansa left-”

But they were already out the door. Just in time, to watch the young woman charge up to Theon Greyjoy, and throw her arms about his neck. She wept into his shoulder with guttural, heart-wrenching sobs, shivering and shaking in Geryjoy’s arms. Then she reared back and struck him across the face, a resounding slap that echoed across the bullpit.

“Damn,” said Payne in a low murmur, evidently impressed.

Jaime snorted, but Brienne grit her teeth. She understood that people often lashed out when their loved ones had been in danger, but domestic violence was no laughing matter. Theon Greyjoy hardly seemed abused however, and she noticed the young man beside him rolling his eyes as they hugged again. The girl was sobbing loudly in Greyjoy’s arms once more. The newcomer’s eyes melted in sympathy at that.

His hair was a darker red that Sansa’s, but they shared a family resemblance. He was evidently the brother. The three left quickly after that, and Brienne got the impression they were uncomfortable within the confines of the station.

But that was hardly unusual. Even people that had committed no crime were frightened of being accused of something, and having the mud stick. Brienne pursed her lips and marched over to the Sheriff. She heard Jaime swear when he realised where she was going and take off after her.

“We’re going to need all the files you have on the related murders,” Brienne said forcefully.

Mormont sneered at her. “What related murders? This is the first actual pre-meditated murder we’ve had for years-”

“The supposed wolf attacks,” Brienne cut in, while Jaime winced at her back.

“Look now,” said Mormont, “I didn’t ask for the Kingsguard to turn up on my doorstep, beggin’ for scraps. I let you have the boat case cause I’d appreciate the extra manpower. But if you think you can muscle in on every animal attack-”

“We understand you’re stretched a little thin,” said Jaime soothingly, “What with one of the women being a ranger, you’re having to lend assistance to look for this wolf. We’re only offering a fresh set of eyes. Maybe someone was keeping a dangerous wild animal as a domestic pet.”

Mormont tapped his chapped lips with one meaty finger.

“Could be somethin’ in that I suppose,” he said at length, then barked out of the still open door like a megaphone; “Payne!”

“Sheriff?” said the young man, like an eager puppy, all coltish limbs and big eyes.

“Payne here will be your little minion. I’m assigning these agents the Craster and Green cases. You’re on their team for whatever they require of you, understand?”

“Yes sir, and I must say thank you for the opportunity-”

“Later, Payne!” Mormont snapped, and Payne scuttled out, still grinning widely like a fool.

Jaime sneered at his retreating back, irritated that they’d been assigned a spy. And a seemingly incompetent one at that. But Brienne was already deciding how best he might be useful.

“We don’t need a babysitter,” said Jaime.

“And I ain’t giving you one,” said Mormont, “Round eighty percent of my team originates from somewhere else originally. Nearby towns, but still, considered outsiders by some. Dependin’ on how well they integrate. Payne’s one of the few whose a Moler, born and raised. They’ll take one look at you and clam right up. But Payne went to school with half the people we interviewed over the wolf attacks. He knows this town inside and out, and all the characters in it.”

He gestured to the door, a clear dismissal. Brienne couldn’t help but feel wrong-footed once again. She kept expecting the Sheriff to obstruct them, and no doubt he still expected reports on their movements from Payne. But he’d assigned them the boy because he would be an asset, which they would never have guessed by themselves. It churned in her gut that she and Jaime were shooting themselves in the foot by being brusque with this man.

Brienne nodded solemnly, and thanked him for Payne’s appointment to their case. They explained their need to get a feel for the town and re-interview the next of kin of the victims and people who had found them, as well as any other witnesses. Payne immediately offered to drive them back to their hotel and give them a tour of the town along the way. Jaime and Brienne need only share a look to know they were in agreement with this plan. They needed to get a feel for the lay of the land, the sooner the better.

Payne drove carefully, but with frequent glances at Jaime at his side, and Brienne in the back.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said softly, reining in the enthusiasm, if only marginally.

Brienne grunted, but Jaime flashed him one of his smooth smiles.

“This is a huge learning opportunity for me,” Payne continued, “One I never thought I’d get, in all my career, let alone at the start of it. We don’t get cross-Kingdom crimes in a place like Mole’s Town-”

“The Sheriff appointed you,” said Brienne, “He said you’d be the best for this task and we’re grateful you’ll be helping us.”

Payne blushed, clearly embarrassed to be so well thought of.

“How close to the start of it?” said Jaime, catching the revealing line in Payne’s waffle.

“Huh?”

“How long have you been a deputy?”

Payne puffed up proudly; “Just over a year.”

Careful not to let him see, Brienne winced. A true rookie. She wondered if the Sheriff wasn’t pulling a trick on them after all. They’d spend half their time looking to make sure he didn’t step on evidence when they weren’t answering his questions. Gods save her from this irritation of a case.

She stared out of the window for the remainder of their journey through the small town, preferring not to speak. The only thing to catch her interest was when she caught sight of a gleaming building that she immediately asked about.

“Glorious isn’t it? Still a pretty new build, about a decade old. It’s the Bolton’s tin factory. They’re one of the richest families around here, they pump a lot of money into the community. Roose Bolton is even our Mayor.”

“The Mayor? I’m surprised he hasn’t been in the station, putting together a special taskforce to investigate the murders.”

Payne coughed.

“What?” said Jaime, and the young deputy winced.

“It’s only... this isn’t the South. Things are different in the North.”

“Oh?”

“Mayor’s a ceremonial position. He opens the Autumn Festival, organises hunts for elk and deer. Poses for photos during the salmon run. He doesn’t create taskforces. I don’t think he’d even know how.”

Brienne nipped at her lower lip with her teeth, annoyed that their assumptions were being disproven at every turn. She didn’t want to admit the Sheriff was in the right to assign them a ‘helper’ but it seemed an unavoidable conclusion.

“What can you tell us about the Boltons?”

“The Boltons?” repeated Payne, with a large smile, “Oh, they’re swell folks. Do a lot of good for this town. There’s only so many places people can work in a place like the North. There’s rivers, mountains and trees. That’s it. So it’s fishing, logging, hunting, mountain guides and a few shops in town. It’s not exactly on the tourist trail, you know?”

“And they provide work?”

“Well, sure. The cannery’s their money-maker, but they have a sports store in town, where they sell hunting and angling gear. The oldest boy’s got a falconry hobby that he turned into a guild, the members give demos on hawks and suchlike.”

“And the rest of the family? What about them?”

“There’s just the five of them. Roose, his two sons, Domeric with the hawks, and Ramsay, he’s a hunter. Roose runs the factory, Dom works there too, he’s set to take over in a few years. Then there’s Mryanda, Roose sorta adopted her but never officially. She and Ramsay have a kid, but they never married. I don’t think she lives with them anymore. She runs the sports shop. That’s it.”

Silently, the Kingsguard agents filed away the information dump. There was no telling what might prove to be useful in the coming days.

“Fingers in many pies. They have their own boats too, I believe?” said Jaime.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” Payne grinned, “That’s what Ramsay’s supposed to run, but everyone knows he couldn’t care less about business. He just wants to hunt. He trial-runs everything they sell at the sports shop. They’ve got these little cards on all the things you can buy from them, with like, a little rating, and he says what’s good about them. It’s pretty useful.”

“Great,” said Jaime, and though it was accompanied by a smile, Brienne knew him well enough to know when he was faking.

But Payne was chuffed, a big grin lighting up his boyishly round cheeks, proud to be of assistance.

“Any other important figures we should know about? How about the frantic girl?”

“Sansa?” Payne replied, “Well, sure. You didn’t see her at her best. She’s a Stark. They don’t look it, but they’re the richest family round these parts. Folk often forget, cause they’re mountain people. Don’t dress fancy, or mingle much in town. Well, they didn’t used to.”

“How did they make their money?” Brienne prompted when the young man trailed off.

“Oh, wood mostly,” he said, “They own all the woods round here. Most of the land actually. And the leases on a lot of the stores. Other property. The fort. If Sansa and Theon ever have little’uns they’ll have a stake in the Greyjoy’s boats as well. Asha’s furious about that. She’s mad they’ve already lost so much business to the Boltons.”

“Is there much rivalry between the Starks and the Boltons?” asked Jaime, “What with them both being so influential?”

“Hey now,” said Payne, “I never thought about it that way. I don’t rightly know. Old Ned Stark got along with Roose well enough, when he was alive. But I don’t think Robb and Jon - those are Ned’s boys – I don’t think they like the Boltons much.”

“That so?” Brienne muttered, and filed the information away for future use.

Shortly afterward, he pulled up to the quaint little guesthouse, which was one of the few hotels in the town. She and Jaime bid Payne goodbye stoically, and by tacit agreement convened in Jaime’s room. Together, they took out their notes and the paperwork they had photocopied from the files at the station. Silently, they began to pin up the most pertinent information on the back wall, which was already considerably covered in a large map of Mole’s Town, and the surrounding mountainous forest.

“It’s a lot of ground to cover,” said Brienne, when they completed their task and stepped back to survey their work, “Do you think he’s really here?”

Jaime shrugged.

“We’ll soon find out,” he said.

*


	2. Chapter 2

When they reiterated their intentions to conduct interviews that day, Payne nodded eagerly, and explained that they might as well start at the Fort, taking the long way round to the station to a few areas of town they hadn’t gotten to before.

“I wasn’t aware the military had an outpost up here,” said Jaime conversationally, as they set off in the cruiser.

It was early still; Jaime and Brienne were keen to fit in as many stops as possible through the day, so the rosy pink clouds of dawn were still glowing on the horizon. They each had a portable, environmentally-friendly reusable cup of coffee clutched in their hands. Payne had a cardboard take-out cup of what smelled like tea.

In response to Jaime’s amiable attempt at conversation, Payne blinked in surprise.

“Oh no,” he said, “Sorry agents, if I confused ya. The fort isn’t an official base. S’just what everybody calls it. Belongs to the Night’s Watch, and they’ve got it outfitted like they’re expecting us to be invaded any moment.”

He made a few sharp turns, an experienced enough driver to make the transitions smooth.

“The Night’s Watch?” Jaime repeated, with a tone of enquiry.

“They’re kind of like a private army?” said Payne, “The Sheriff says they’re mostly hunters, bored in the off season. Still, they’re kitted out like they’re going to war.”

They soon understood what he meant. A chain-link fence surrounded a large base of multiple squat, concrete buildings. It was topped with barbed wire and security cameras at every post. The entrance was a double gate. The first rolled back automatically at their approach, but the second was manned by a gatepost, and a young man with a semi-automatic strapped around his chest, resting menacingly in his hands, greeted them. He couldn’t be long out of school; barely a hint of whiskers about his boyish chin.

“You got a warrant?” he asked, when Payne explained that the Kingsguard needed to see someone called ‘Jon Snow’.

“Say, Olly,” said Payne, “You still hitting a straight 4.0 on the run?”

“Naw,” said the young man with the machine gun, a proud grin lighting up his previously sullen face, “I gots down to 3.50, last month.”

“Hey now, how’s about that?” said Payne with a look of wonder, “D’you beat the record?”

“Not quite,” said Olly, with a rueful shake of his head, “That’s 3.48.”

Payne made a noise of commiseration.

“You’ll shave off those couple seconds, no problem,” he said, “You gunning for the Kingdom championships this year?”

“Hell yeah!” said Olly enthusiastically, before seeming to remember he was supposed to be the stone-faced security.

He glanced around nervously, as though checking to see no one had observed him breaking character.

“Look,” said Payne kindly, “We only want a quick word about Gilly. Twenty minutes, tops. Ain’t many people around at this time, and Jon can’t be too busy this early. What’s say we get this done and get outta your hair?”

Reluctantly, the boy seemed to agree with his assessment. He waved them through, after making a little noise about radioing for an escort, which Payne circumnavigated by pointing out how that would wake a whole lot of people up, and make a lot of fuss.

“I know the way,” he reassured the young soldier, who gave them no more issue.

Brienne looked at Payne in surprised respect. He’d successfully gotten the boy’s guard down and wheedled his way in. She knew that if she and Jaime had approached alone, they would have been rebuffed until they returned with a warrant. Begrudgingly, she recognised that the Sheriff was right to assign them an escort so familiar with the townsfolk.

“What were all those numbers about?” asked Jaime, just as Brienne was about to enquire why Jon Snow was significant.

“Olly’s a ski champ,” said Payne, “There’s a series of runs up yonder, where the snow never melts. He’s just about to beat the record on the most dangerous one.”

Brienne cut in to ask about their presence here, before Payne could get anymore sidetracked.

“Well, Gilly’s boyfriend Sam is a member. And she did some work for them sometimes.”

“I thought she was a ranger?” said Brienne.

“Well sure,” Payne agreed, “But her daddy was a bookkeeper. So she helped out with their books sometimes. And told them about thing’s needed hunting, I think, sometimes.”

“And Jon Snow?”

“Well, he’s the leader,” said Payne, “And you were asking about the Starks? He’s one.”

They were prohibited from enquiring further, as Payne parked up and led them to an nondescript building towards the centre of the base. The door buzzed open without them needing to press the intercom. A lift to the third floor opened to a dark corridor with a series of closed doors. At the end stood a man illuminated by the light from his open door, dressed all in black.

As they approached, they saw they were met with a scowl and the closed body language of crossed arms. After introductions, Snow reluctantly let them into his large office. It contained two rooms, the smaller box room nestled in one corner was firmly shut, with a keypad entry. Jon sat behind a large hardwood desk, indicating the chairs in front with a nod of his head.

There were only two seats; Payne leaned against the wall instead.

As they had advanced inside, Payne had explained the Night’s Watch’s vow to track down the dangerous wild animal behind the attacks. Brienne led with this, asking Snow if he knew of anyone who had confirmed what exactly had done the killing.

“Your lot said the hair was canine,” said Snow in clipped, surly tones, “But a wolf doesn’t usually do that level of damage. Could be rabid, I guess.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to find it?”

“We’ve got the most experienced trackers in the North,” Snow sniffed, “We’ll find him.”

“What can you tell us about the victims, Gilly Craster and Karsi Green?”

“Gilly was a fine woman,” said Jon, “Good to Sam, and with her son. No nonsense about her. She got the job done and she didn’t take any shit.”

“She worked here for you, sometimes?”

Jon shrugged, but affirmed that it was only ever on a consulting basis.

“Anything else you can tell us, about Green perhaps?”

His eyes flickered briefly to Payne, loitering near the doorway, but listening to every word.

“I didn’t know the whore,” he said, “I don’t go down to that part of the docks. Some of my guys said she was nice enough.”

Brienne and Jaime fought to keep their shock at the woman’s ‘profession’ off their faces, with their long practice of equanimity in wild situations. They fully intended on having words with the Sheriff for failing to inform them, however. It might have serious baring on the case, if Green’s death was related to her ‘work’.

They thanked Snow for his time, and saw themselves out. Out of curiosity, Brienne hung back a moment, forcing Jaime and Payne to stop partway out of the doorway.

“Sansa Stark was in a bad way yesterday,” she said, “The news of the incident on the boat hit her hard. We’d like to check on her wellbeing. Have you seen her recently?”

The muscle in Snow’s jaw twitched, his eyes dark with fury.

“No,” he said shortly, sending Payne a burning look of what seemed like betrayal.

“What was that about?” Jaime hissed at his partner as they made their way back to the cruiser.

Brienne shrugged, “Just a hunch.”

“Your hunches are going to get us killed one of these days,” said Jaime, “He looked about ready to batter you simply for mentioning her name.”

Payne winced.

“He thought you were threatening his sister,” he said, “And I don’t blame him. You can’t think Sansa had something to do with the death of Theon’s crew?”

“ _Greyjoy’s_ crew were torn to pieces, she would hardly be capable of that,” Brienne countered with hostility, emphasising the professional distance of the use of surnames.

Payne did not pick up on the hint as they began to drive out of the compound.

“Sansa’s likely to have gone back to the mountains,” he said, “The Starks always crawl back there when they’re wounded.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Brienne nodded to herself.

Payne’s hand jerked on the steering wheel, swerving them roughly before he quickly regained control. Jaime and Brienne looked to him in surprise. The young deputy was shaking his head vigorously.

“You don't wanna go up there,” he said, “I can just call them. I can get Robb to come down.”

“I think we'd rather intrude into their home turf,” Jaime explained, “It's about putting them on the back foot. They don’t have time to prepare or hide anything.”

Payne looked like the idea of them travelling up the mountain was physically causing him pain.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said, “There’s only one trail. If you get lost you get lost. There are bears, and traps, and landslides.”

“We’ll stick to the trail,” Jaime assured him, committed only because he trusted Brienne’s judgement.

“Well alrighty,” Payne said reluctantly, “If you're resigned, you'd better borrow an off-road jeep from the station, that road soon disappears. And some boots.”

“Boots?” Brienne repeated.

“Mud,” Payne nodded sagely, and then a look of alarm covered his face. “Maybe some hard hats?”

Jaime and Brienne only looked at one another in askance.

*

Theon had watched Robb try to persuade Sansa to go home, back up the mountain, unsuccessfully for the better part of an hour before he had intervened. They had shared strong tea in his cramped living room. Sansa had only agreed to go back to the cabin to collect some more of her things. Once she had assured herself that Theon wasn’t going to drop down dead, she had wanted to leave.

But she was reluctant to tell them where, or accept a lift from either of them. Robb had started in earnest to convince her to go back with him at that. Theon wondered what awful living situation Robb was envisioning for her if she remained in the valley. Most of the Stark’s money was tied up in wood or property. They had little in the way of actual money unless it was the end of logging season, and they’d just had an influx of cash after the sales. But that was still months off.

Still, Sansa could take care of herself. Theon assured Robb that she would stay the night in their cabin, since it was getting late, and be on her way in the morning. Mulish, Sansa had wanted to argue the point, but had backed down once she realised Robb wasn’t going to leave without her otherwise. Knowing Jeyne would be going crazy trying to handle the kids on her own, she did her sister by law a favour by assuring Robb she would stay the night.

And she did _stay the night_.

Assuring Theon that it absolutely did not mean she was coming back, in between pulling his hair and asking for more, harder, deeper. Sansa clutched at him desperately, marking Theon up as if to remind herself he was still alive, still hers. She sucked bruises at his throat and scratched up his back with her nails, and demanded he swore he would never leave her, never frighten her like that again. As always, Theon promised her anything, everything.

She was gone in the morning, before he woke up, her pillow still smelling of lavender, a single strand of long red hair resting in the impression where her head had lain.

*

Jaime and Brienne understood Payne’s caution when the road turned into an impassable quagmire. They were forced to leave their temporary vehicle behind half-way up the craggy mountain, and make their way on foot, in borrowed hiking boots. He had been unable to join them on this excursion, citing paperwork. He warned them not to wear sunglasses, even if the day was bright. Apparently shielding your eyes was considered attempting to shield the truth from the Starks, something they found highly offensive.

Thankfully, there were enough clouds in the sky to keep the sun from being too oppressive. But they hadn’t gone a mile before Jaime winced, his foot sunk almost to the ankle in thick, congealed mud.

“Great,” he muttered.

Brienne offered him a sympathetic look, taking the lead as they forged up the rocky hillside. 

For an hour they heard nothing but birdsong, and the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees. They followed what appeared to be a path, and voiced the fact that a guide would probably have been a good idea. 

Then Jaime let out a hiss of discomfort and brushed something off his coat. A small nut tumbled from the lapel of his coat, and clattered onto to the ground.

“Strange...” said Brienne, before she was caught in the chest by an acorn which pinged off her jacket, followed by a distinct giggle from somewhere above.

“What the- hey, you! Yeah, I see you, you little shit!” Jaime yelled, before letting out a yelp as another projectile hit him square in the forehead.

He charged forward, Brienne on his heels, but the child she barely glimpsed skittered away by scrabbling across the treetops with the speed and agility of a monkey, and they were quickly winded trying to keep up. A bunch of other little faces poked out from behind branches, darting out of sight whenever they realised they had been noticed.

“You should be in school!” Jaime panted futilely, but the children had melted into the forest.

Brienne shot him a look of commiseration, and they continued on. Thankfully, it was only a short distance before they reached a wooden post bearing the banner: 'Winterfell. Private Property, Keep Out!' and a crude painting of a wolf.

“Charming,” said Jaime sarcastically, while Brienne merely rolled her eyes.

The continued up the track until it widened, levelled out, and revealed several wooden cabins, crude but sweetly rustic.

The first seemed empty, but a young woman was busy preparing green beans on the porch steps of the other.

As they approached, she barely looked up. She was busy plunging her hand into a bucket of water to grab a fistful of bean pods, shaking off the water, then quickly chopping off the hard ends on a wooden board in her lap. They almost missed the chubby baby boy that was nestled beside her, until a small hand shot out and snatched up a pod of beans from the waiting cullender, where the prepared beans were deposited. The child munched on his snack, balefully staring at the outsiders.

“Good afternoon,” said Jaime, with his winning, warm smile.

The woman took one look at them and hollered; “Robb! Police!”

She had a strong accent, and pronounced the word as 'pol-is'.

“Tell 'em we ain't got any spare chickens!” a deep voice from inside came after a moment.

“Ain't them!” the woman called back.

“What?” said the man's voice, approaching, until a familiar young man was framed in the gable doorway, only his head and shoulders visible through the open hatch.

“Robb Stark, I presume?” said Brienne pleasantly, “May we come in?”

The redhead eyed them distrustfully for a long moment.

“Warrant,” he snapped, and the cordial smile dropped from Brienne's face.

“You're not in any trouble,” Jaime hastened to explain, “We're looking for your sister actually. Sansa? She seemed rather in distress at the station yesterday, we'd all like to check up on her.”

“She ain’t here,” said Stark, “Sansa hasn’t lived here since she was seventeen.”

“Do you know where we might find her? This was the address on file.”

“Well yeah, she’s still got her place,” said Stark, jerking his chin towards one of the cabins yonder, “But she lives with Theon down by the docks.”

“Perhaps we might continue this conversation inside,” said Jaime, “We’ve walked an awfully long way.”

Churlishly, Robb Stark unlatched the lower half of the gable door at let them in. Inside, the cabin was warmed by a lit stove, thick logs burning merrily inside. They entered through the large kitchen, which was covered in utensils, pots and pans of various sizes, hanging amongst bushels of dried vegetables and bundles of herbs. Stark navigated the room expertly, but Jaime and Brienne had to duck and weave to avoid being smacked in the face by bulbs of garlic or an errant ladle.

They arrived in the living room without incident or bruises, and sat side by side on the sagging sofa. Stark pottered about the cosy room, straightening the cushions and crocheted blankets on the various sized chairs. At their back was a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall, stuffed to the brim with tomes on everything from Eastern philosophy to engineering, atlases to romance novels. Peppered here and there on the shelves were unlit candles and sticks of incense, but the overwhelming majority of the space was inhabited by books.

Hanging on the wall to their left was a large cork noticeboard, and every inch was filled with tacked up photographs of various happy red- or brown-haired children. A smiling older couple featured in a few; a redheaded mother and a brunette father, both with crow’s feet and a satisfied gleam in their eye. Sansa Stark, Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy featured in many of the pictures, at various ages.

“You look a little young to have so many children, Mr Stark,” said Brienne, affecting a motherly air, which she only managed when she didn't entirely loathe a witness.

Robb Stark snorted in disbelief, shaking his head even as he barked for Rickon to pick up his toys, goddamn it. A small boy came scurrying into the room, as scruffy as all the rest. The child took one look at a small pile of trucks and Hot Wheels, and leaned down to collect a teddy bear from amongst the rubble of cars. He tugged the bear free using both hands. Then offered Stark a silent, challenging glare before walking straight back out.

“Fucking brats,” said Stark with a shake of his head, apparently astounded at the audacity of his child, as the boy stomped away, unrepentant. But the words were spoken with a certain fondness, and a smile upon his lips.

He bent down to deal with the toys himself, scooping up an armful to deposit them in a waiting box.

“They ain’t my kids,” Stark belatedly replied as he tidyied up, “Well, 'cept little Ned. They're my brothers and sisters. But Sansa don't live here no more, unless she's quarrelling with Theon. Lord knows that's every other month.”

“Where are their parents?” asked Brienne.

“Dead,” said Stark shortly.

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why?” said Stark. “You didn't know them. Did you?”

“No,” said Jaime, when he realised Stark was waiting for a response.

“Then what the fuck you sorry for?”

Jaime and Brienne exchanged a look of mild disbelief. They were saved the oddity of having to explain social niceties, by the arrival of a young brunette woman in a tank top and scruffy jeans, busy attaching her hoop earrings. Job done, she snatched up a set of car keys and jerked her head at the Kingsguard.

“Who're you?” she asked brusquely.

“You always greet your guests with such enthusiasm?” asked Jaime with a smug smile.

“We don't have guests,” said the young woman, “We have kin. And you sure as fuck ain't that.”

“They're Kingsguard,” said Robb, saving them the trouble, “Lookin' for Sansa.”

“Why?” said the girl, dropping her keys and crossing her arms to glare at them belligerently, “Sansa ain't done nothing. She don't know nothing.”

“Well that's where you might be wrong, miss...?”

“Arya Stark,” she said defiantly, “And I ain't got time to chit-chat. I gotta open the bar.”

“Just a moment,” implored Brienne, “Have you seen Sansa lately?”

“Naw,” drawled the girl.

“Do you know where we might find her?”

“Naw,” came the same lazy drawl.

“Would you tell us, if you did?” Jaime cut in.

The girl eyed him with contempt for a long moment, before a slow smirk crept across her face.

“Naaaaaw,” she said, elongating the word smugly, “We done? Some of us work for a living.”

Robb snorted.

“We might need to speak with you again,” Brienne warned her.

“Whatever,” said Arya, “I ain’t hard to find.”

Then she was gone, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

“What a delight,” said Jaime with a bold, fake grin.

A moment later the door re-opened, and the woman they had seen before stepped cautiously inside, carrying her cullender full of prepared green beans. At her heels, the toddler trotted in beside her.

“Another of your sisters?” asked Jaime politely.

“Arya is,” Robb confirmed, “This is my wife, Jeyne.”

Jeyne eyed them curiously as she set the beans into a pan and stirred the mixture in a large pot which was already bubbling. She turned away to help the toddler onto a small stool, and ran the tap for warm water so he could wash his chubby hands.

“How long have you lived in these mountains, Mr Stark?” asked Brienne.

“My family have owned these woods for generations. Been here all my life,” he said, “Except for a few months at my aunt’s, after my mother passed. Came back here soon as I turned eighteen. Got custody of the kids not long after.”

In the kitchen, the food was all cooked, and Jeyne began setting plates and forks out on the long hardwood table. She set down a large jug of water. A cheerful bunch of sunflowers were already standing proudly on the table in a hand-painted vase, dotted in lines of colour by several sets of tiny finger prints.

“You got any more questions?” asked Robb Stark, “Only, I got a bunch of ankle-biters to feed.”

With this declaration, he leant towards the open half of the front door. He rang a large bell just inside that they hadn’t noticed before, hidden as it was amongst all the other utensils in the kitchen. It rang with a jolly, clear chime.

“What can you tell us about the animal attacks?” Brienne immediately enquired, “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

“Bear attacks, occasionally. But not much, they know where humans are and steer clear,” said Stark, “As for the deaths, my brother Jon’s friends with Gilly's boyfriend. Says Sam’s real cut up about it, on account that Gilly was the love of his life.”

“Gilly Craster, the first victim?” Brienne confirmed. 

“I think I met her at a barbecue once,” said Stark softly. 

“You didn’t know her well?”

“Only in passing,” said Stark, shaking his head, “Talk to my brother. She worked for him.”

He wasn’t to know they already had, and they did not enlighten him. They were forced to set aside any follow up questions when the thunder of a small herd of children advanced. The boy, Rickon, hurried in from the back of the house, just in time to meet the four other children that came tumbling in.

“Wash your hands!” Stark ordered over the din of plates and cutlery being collected, while taking a quick tally.

The tiny heads bobbed and weaved, the small crowd marginally avoiding tripping one another or gaining sharp elbows in soft places. Stark frowned, and began counting heads again.

“Where’s Lyanna?” he asked, concerned.

“She took a basket to Uncle Benjen’s,” one child piped up, “She said she'd be back for supper.”

“Well alrighty, then,” said Stark, mollified, “She’ll be having squirrel stew for lunch.”

The children all laughed riotously at this. Jaime was more concerned that he recognised the face of a boy on the cusp of being a teen, with impish features and a mop of reddish-brown hair.

“You!” he barked, “You could have cost me an eye, flinging things at people from trees!”

The boy offered him an utterly remorseless grin.

“Bran!” Robb Stark barked, “Slingshot, now!”

He held out his hand with an angry shake. The boy glared, but reluctantly relented when his brother didn’t back down. With a mulish look in Jaime’s direction, he pulled out a homemade slingshot from his back pocket and deposited it in Stark’s waiting hand.

“This is for killing rats or hunting squirrels,” Stark said with a shake of his head as he placed it on a very high shelf.

While his back was turned, Bran Stark flipped Jaime off, just long enough to not get caught when his big brother looked back, to check he was still listening. Stark continued to discipline his wayward child, while Jaime gaped, affronted by Bran’s brazen cheek.

“You’ll get it back when you stop behaving like a hooligan.”

Bran glared obstinately, utterly unremorseful, snatching a plate from the laden table and beginning to pile it high with rice, mushrooms fried in butter and garlic, some kind of bean stew and the green beans which had been stirred into some meat dish.

“Sorry,” said Stark, turning back to the Kingsguard, “I can’t keep eyes on them all, constantly.”

“No harm done,” said Brienne smoothly while Jaime seethed in Bran’s direction, “We’ll leave you to your lunch… But perhaps it might lighten the load, if they were in school?”

Stark answered her suggestion with a raised brow, as if to ask how on earth his hillbilly kids would get along in mainstream school.

“They’re home-schooled, and we do just fine,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

The Kingsguard took their leave, pleased at having gotten a decent look at the Stark’s territory, and main trail through the woods.

*

The law enforcement officers did not know that Theon received a call, as soon as Robb had been given the all-clear by his little spies that they were gone. He picked up on the third ring.

“Those feds are after Sansa,” said Robb succinctly.

Theon swore colourfully, and hopped up to drag his jeans back on. He’d been lounging around half-dressed, vegged out on his couch. Wallowing in the misery of his dead buddies and stewing over what or who could have done it.

“D’you know where she is?” Robb asked, distracting him from his worry.

“Nah,” said Theon, “You know she high-tailed it out of here, before I woke up. She’s usually at Margie’s, if she’s not above Arya’s pub. And Arya’s had tenants up there for a couple months now. I could try Margie, then Cella’s. Jeyne Poole, maybe?”

“I thought Jeyne moved South?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Theon said as he crammed his phone between his ear and shoulder, hopping about to pull on his ratty trainers.

“Try Margaery and Cella, then Jon,” Robb suggested. “She sometimes goes to his, when she’s been fight with you.”

“She does?” Theon scowled, “Fucking terrific. I’d rather not wade through his buddies unless I have to, and we haven’t been fighting so…”

“Point,” Robb acknowledged, “I’ll call Jon. Gotta let him know I sent the feds to him, to divert them from Sansa’s trail. The Night’s Watch should distract them for a while. Pretty sure they don’t have a permit for all those shotguns.”

“Thanks,” said Theon with a huff of laughter over Jon’s misfortune, snatching up his hoodie and keys.

“When I find her, I’ll take her to my uncle’s cabin,” he continued, “It’s way out of the town limits, and Euron’s almost always at sea. I know where he keeps the keys… and if he’s home we’ll just have to put up with his shitty jokes for a couple weeks. At least we can go to the beach.”

Robb agreed it was a sound plan. Patting his back pocket, Theon confirmed his wallet was still in his jeans. He remembered his phone charger at the last minute. He always kept a spare change of clothes in the truck in case he came back from work soaked. Anything Sansa needed they could buy on the road, though she certainly left enough makeup stashed around the passenger side of the vehicle. All good, Theon hopped into his truck, determined not to return home until he’d tracked down his wayward girlfriend and helped her lay low.

The drive into town was quick and quiet. Theon made good time and had no issue parking up; it was hardly a bustling metropolis.

Margaery was one of the few truly classy people in Mole’s Town. She and her family were a hangover from when the economy was in boom, and there had been a short-lived attempt at gentrification. She lived on her parent’s estate in the nicer part of town, along the riverside. They had a sprawling terrace of interconnected buildings, two of which had been converted into a guesthouse and a fine dining restaurant. Theon tried the restaurant first. The manager let him into the back room, while he called Margaery down from her house just beyond the section of the estate open to the public.

“Sansa isn’t with me, and I haven’t seen her for at least a month,” she said apologetically, “Which is weird, and frankly concerns me. We usually brunch together once a fortnight, if not more, you know that.”

Theon agreed it was strange for Sansa to back out of her standing social agreements. She was pretty dedicated to her friends.

“Thanks anyway,” he said, “If you see her will you call me? Or get her to call me?”

“I promise I’ll try,” said the pretty woman amiably. “Have you eaten? You look like a strong gust of wind might blow you over.”

“That crew that was killed? Those were my guys,” Theon explained, “I was meant to be out there with them.”  
  


“Well shit,” said Margaery, crossing the elegant room to give Theon a sympathetic hug. “No wonder you look shaken up. Order whatever you want, on the house.”

“Thanks, but I need to look for Sansa. I’m going to try Cella’s.”

“Don’t bother,” Margaery said with a graceful shake of her head, “I had lunch with her yesterday, and we lamented that neither of us had seen Sansa for weeks.”

“Fuck,” muttered Theon, his stomach swooping horribly.

“I’ll get you a nice private table, come on,” Margaery insisted, taking him by the elbow.

She was true to her word, seating Theon on an otherwise empty mezzanine level, that was usually reserved for larger parties or special guests. He ended up ploughing his way through three courses, suddenly starving. He wondered when he’d last eaten, and winced at the reminder that he hadn’t, after he’d vomited out of sorrow and shock over the crewmates he’d lost. He’d felt too queasy to.

Theon ate in moody silence, broken only by Robb texting to say that Jon hadn’t seen Sansa either, and didn’t know where she was staying. Margaery joined him for the desert course, bringing him out a slice of blueberry pie, while she set down a piece of strawberry cheesecake for herself.

“What the hell is going on in this town, Margie?” Theon sighed, stuffed and overwrought.

Margaery sucked a tiny strawberry from her spoon delicately, and shrugged.

“It’s weird right? The animal attacks, and now a mass murder. Not to mention that bloody cult.”

“It’s weird,” she confirmed, “But what can we do? The Night’s Watch are talking about forming a hunting party to take out the bear - or wolf, or whatever it is.”

“Great,” said Theon with a roll of his eyes, “That’s just what we need, a bunch of idiots stumbling through the woods toting rifles.”

Margaery graced him with her lovely smile.

“Actually it’s probably a good idea,” she said, to his surprise, “It will give people something to focus on, to talk about. People like to feel useful. Actively going out to hunt it, will give them a goal, like they’re actually trying to do something.”  
  


“Rather than sitting around, waiting to be taken out next?”

“Quite,” said Margaery with pursed lips.

“I guess I see your point,” Theon conceded, “I just hate those guys.”

“Mmm,” Margaery hummed, which Theon took as agreement.

“I’m going to call Cella, just to check,” said Theon, “Ask her to tell Sansa to get in touch, if she sees her. Where the hell is she, Margie?”

At this plaintive plea, Margaery reached across the table to grasp his hand in her own.

“Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s alright. Sansa’s a survivor.”

Theon grunted, before bidding her goodbye and taking his leave. There was one place left to check, though he doubted it would be of use. Still, he was running out of ideas.

*

In their hotel, Brienne and Jaime pinned up the stills from the surveillance footage they had taken from the station. It had caught Sansa Stark’s prolonged scene in the entrance the day prior. There was a particularly clear image of her where the pendant around her neck could clearly be seen. A white half-moon set against a glittery black stone, to create a perfect circle, hanging on a silver chain between her breasts.

Brienne lifted the image up to a poster already tacked up on the wall; known organisations on their watchlist, and an associated iconography. It was an exact match. A smirk spread across Jaime’s handsome face.

“Bingo,” she said.


End file.
